


Look At You, Silvery Blond

by neverthelessthesun



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Author Has Never Played The Witcher Games, Blaviken (The Witcher), Does the world need another Jaskier's-eye-view of the events of Season 1? No But Here It Is, F/M, Geralt Is Kind Of A Jerk, Hurt No Comfort, I Googled A Map So I Think The Geography Is Mostly Correct, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mostly TV canon, Part-Elf Jaskier | Dandelion, Sad Ending, Songfic, Stream of Consciousness, Timeline What Timeline, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Love, Xenophobia, barely., sorry in advance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 05:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30134439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverthelessthesun/pseuds/neverthelessthesun
Summary: So long ago - before Her Sweet Kiss, Before Toss A Coin, before the beginning - Jaskier didn’t have much of a reputation at all. He was barely out of school when he met his Witcher in that rundown pub in Posada - certainly not old enough or well-traveled enough to be known. But, if he had been, the reputation would have been this:He was a bit of a slut.Jaskier's perspective of The Witcher Season 1. Title and inspiration from the song Strawberry Blond by Mitski.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, implied Jaskier/Eskel
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	Look At You, Silvery Blond

**Author's Note:**

> Friends, I have not decided to start writing fic again, but this has poured out of me regardless. I just kept listening to [this song](https://youtu.be/g685pAuKW34) and thinking how perfect it was for Geraskier, and here we are. 
> 
> The reason I didn't use Archive Warnings is because, although no on-screen sexual assault or violence occurs in this fic, it is kind of baked into the DNA of the world of The Witcher. Though, tbh, if you've made it this far, you should know that already. 
> 
> No happy ending, no beta, we die sad and alone like Calanthe.

§

_I love everybody, because I love you_

§

So long ago - before _Her Sweet Kiss_ , Before _Toss A Coin_ , before the beginning - Jaskier didn’t have much of a reputation at all. He was barely out of school when he met his Witcher in that rundown pub in Posada - certainly not old enough or well-traveled enough to be known. But, if he had been, the reputation would have been this:

He was a bit of a slut.

Mind you, Jaskier wasn’t unkind in his sluttiness. He tried to be up-front with everyone that he was a generous and honest lover, but only for the night. Some people took to that idea better than others - hence the reason why he avoided certain corners of Sodden so studiously - but overall it’d been a strategy that had treated him well. Jaskier loved loving people, loved falling in love, and loved never falling out of it. The way to preserve that delicate balance, really, was to never stick around long enough to be disappointed. 

He broke that rule quickly with Geralt. 

Jaskier loved everybody. It was in his nature as a creator to seek out inspiration wherever he could find it, and people are nearly always lovely inspiration. Kind or cruel, bold or cowardly, there was always a story to be told. There’s a certain kind of beauty in that, in the stories people tell, and Jaskier was all about that kind of beauty. He craved it. He made his living off of it. So of course the barmaid with all the gossip caught his eye, of course the demure alderman’s daughter who dreamt of freedom made him want to compose, of course the stable hand who found solace in looking at the stars was attractive. Common people with uncommon stories were his very favorites. 

Geralt was a different sort. He wasn’t common, first off - and, though Jaskier was a fool, he wasn’t stupid enough to miss that one. A Witcher, no matter their past, will never qualify as common. They are singular almost by definition. Also, this Witcher was not a fan of stories - though Jaskier was intuitive enough to know that didn’t mean he didn’t have any, just that he didn’t care to share them. Well. Jaskier was a master at getting to hear stories no one else had heard. 

Finally, the thing that instantly set Geralt apart was his rigidity. So much of the world changed, constantly, an ebb and flow. But Geralt was like a stone in the middle of a river, forcing the stream to split. He didn’t budge, even as the world rushed by him, often giving him only the worst it had to offer. This piqued Jaskier’s curiosity. A man that didn’t move, didn’t change? What perspective he must have! How strange the world must be to him! And so, really, there was no leaving him once he had started, trailing along behind the mare Roach and humming delightedly to himself, while Geralt’s unchanging, marble-like form led the way. He tried to promise himself he wouldn’t stay long, but even as he thought it, he knew it was a lie. 

§

_When you stood up, walked away, barefoot  
And the grass where you lay left a bed in your shape  
I looked over it, and I ached _

§

The moment Jaskier first realised he was in trouble came a short three months later, on a chilly morning towards the end of Autumn. They were perhaps three days South of the Pontar River, the marker from which Jaskier knew he would turn West to Oxenfurt and Geralt would, he assumed, head Northeast. He knew very little of how witchers spent the winter, only that they did so in the mountains, and that no one saw them again until spring. He wasn’t too worried - he would find Geralt when the ice melted, and they would travel together again.

But the moment. The moment was this. 

Jaskier was clinging to the last fragments of sleep, though he knew Geralt would soon rouse him. The fire had burned to embers in the night, and it was cold outside his bedroll. But inside it was warm, and the sun was yet low enough that it could not make its way through the trees to blind him. He heard Geralt yawn, rise, and start packing up camp. He sighed, knowing this signaled the end of his sleep well and truly. Finally cracking an eye, he looked across the fire to where Geralt had been mere moments ago. 

He saw the thin layer of frost upon the grass, so faint it almost seemed like the world was tinted white for a second. He saw the dying embers. And, like a bruise, like waking from a dream, there was a spot in the grass still vibrant green where Geralt’s bedroll had been all night. It was so bright, this green, and clearly warm, because that was where Geralt had been. For a split second, Jaskier wondered what it would be like to be gathered in warmth so green.

Then, as if a bell struck, he shook his head to clear it. He quickly got up without Geralt having to prod him to wakefulness. Collecting his own bedroll, he saw a much smaller patch of green where he lay. His heart gave a shiver. 

Geralt gave him a funny look, to see him on his feet before absolutely necessary, but as usual said nothing. Jaskier wondered if it was cold enough this morning that his blush might be passed off as wind-kissed cheeks. “Good morning, Geralt! What a fine rest I had. The day looks lovely for traveling, does it not?”

“Hmm,” Geralt replied, in a manner which implied he didn’t agree nor disagree. Jaskier flashed him what he hoped was a cheery smile.  
“We will make good time today, I can feel it! Come on, up and at ‘em!”

They did indeed make good time, all the way to Pontar, and a mere two and a half days later, Jaskier waved farewell to his new companion and strolled off along the riverbank alone, clutching the feeling of warm green close to his heart. 

§

_I love everybody because I love you  
I don’t need the city and I don’t need proof  
All I need, darling, is a life in your shape  
I picture it, soft, and I ache _

§

The springtime brought with it an influx of monsters, or so Geralt told him. Jaskier had yet - in his three years of traveling with Geralt - to see a noticeable uptick in contracts during the spring months - in truth, jobs for a Witcher were thin. But it did not matter so much, now that Jaskier was along and could supplement their income with his bardic talents. He often could get them a room, or a meal, or at least an ale for free, so long as he played his lute for the patrons of this bar or that one. 

Jaskier loved visiting towns and cities. Geralt hated it, and no wonder - because the number of times Jaskier had seen humans spit when he walked by, or scowl from across the street, or even (once, memorably) drive him out of town, pitchforks and all. It was inhumane, the things humans did. But Geralt was always content to sleep a half mile outside town, or rough it in the stable with Roach while Jaskier sang and played until his coin purse was full. Jaskier didn’t like that part of towns, now, but it couldn’t be helped - his craft required an audience, and Geralt’s required people to save. So, they made it into most towns they passed. 

Jaskier didn’t love the wilds, roughing it in the forests and plains while Geralt and Roach seemed perfectly at home. He could stand it for about a week and a half before Geralt’s monosyllabic answers and the mud and the _bugs_ got to him, and he started to get a little snappy. He tried to keep it tucked in. After all, Geralt was doing him a favor having him along in the first place - and whenever he complained even slightly, it seemed Geralt’s first response was to tell him to leave and be on his way back to the comforts of civilization. 

But, to his dismay, Jaskier found a bit less comfort in civilization these days. After seeing the way Geralt was treated by nearly every town they visited, and seeing how happy, rowdy drunks could turn on a dime at the glimpse of white hair and silver sword - well. It was enough to put anyone off performing for them. But, still committed to sharing his craft with the world, Jaskier would like to think he had struck a happy medium.

Whenever he was in town, he made it a priority to sing songs - almost exclusively his own creations - which painted Witchers in a more flattering light. _Toss a Coin_ was the most popular, but there was _The Road to Ard Carraigh_ , and this year he was debuting _Siren’s Call_ , a rowdy Skellige sailor’s jig about how Geralt destroyed a nest of sirens, saving a fishing town from certain doom. The more adventures he witnessed, the wider his repertoire became, and the easier it was to charm a few locals at every stop with tales of his Witcher’s noble success.

Geralt, for his part, tried to stay out of the taverns when Jaskier was playing. Jaskier tried not to take it personally. He knew Geralt was shy, and likely as not didn’t want any attention foisted upon him, positive or negative. 

They were trekking through Northern Redania, close to the Braa river and heading toward the coast, when Jaskier noticed a town on the horizon. “Oh, thank Melitele! Look, Geralt, a town! We shall certainly eat well tonight. I’ve been so sick of rabbit. I can sing _Siren’s Call_ , and we… Geralt, are you alright?” 

Geralt had frozen, and his face was white as a sheet. He had been leading Roach on foot, but now stood in the middle of the road, not moving, not even when Roach complained about the sudden stop. The Witcher was instead focused on the tiny outline of the town on the horizon. 

Then, just as suddenly as he stopped, he abruptly turned around and started walking away. 

“Geralt? Geralt!”

Jaskier had to run to catch up to him, and by the time he had, Geralt had swung himself up into Roach’s saddle and was refusing to meet Jaskier’s eye. “Just tell me what is going on!” Jaskier tried to insist. “Hello? Does a warm bed offend you that much?”

“You’ll find no warm beds in Blaviken,” Geralt snarled, and Jaskier was taken aback by how angry Geralt seemed in that moment. 

Then the words registered. 

Blaviken.

The city which made the very reputation Jaskier was trying so very hard to break. 

“I’m…” He searched for something to say. “I’m sorry, Geralt, I didn’t know. Of course we’ll carry on.” When this proclamation was met with silence, he said, “I’m really not all that sick of rabbit, Geralt. You know me, I’ll eat anything with you, I’m not picky. I just...why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

Geralt didn’t even dignify that with a grunt, and instead picked up the pace so Jaskier had to walk a bit quicker to keep up. It was clear no talking was going to happen for the rest of the day, and probably not the next day, either. 

Jaskier sighed to himself, picking up the pace and doing some quick mental geography. “We’re a few day’s ride from Crinfrid, if we turn South,” he informed Geralt. “Remember that lovely bath they have there? I wouldn’t mind a repeat visit.”

It was only ten minutes later that Geralt slowed to a more reasonable pace once more, once they were fully out of sight of Blaviken’s shadow. “Crinfrid,” Geralt mumbled, then shrugged. He turned Roach south, and off they went.

Jaskier never asked about Blaviken. Years and years later, he would be told by someone whose father was there when it happened, that the Butcher slew ten men in as many seconds, that he spilled blood until the market streets were flooded with it, that the horror of what he had done was so strong that, when a Kikimora began preying on the people, they would not accept a Witcher’s help until half the town was dead.

Jaskier never wrote a song about Blaviken. He didn’t write songs about places, only people. But, when he had traveled with Geralt long enough to be friends with Eskel, long enough to have met Vesemir and heard a very different story, he did occasionally begin to end his sets with a lullaby, one that told the tale of a princess trapped by her birth, who fought bravely for what she believed in, and who knew that people forge their own path. 

§

_Reach out the car window, try to hold the wind  
You tell me you love her, I give you a grin  
Oh, all I ever wanted was a life in your shape  
So I follow the white lines  
Follow the white lines  
Keep my eyes on the road as I ache _

§

Jaskier _hated_ Yennefer. 

He tried to be understanding, truly he did. That was why Yennefer wasn’t dealing with explaining that she had to kill Jaskier before he killed her, which would be the inevitable end of any attempt he made on her life. He knew Geralt saw her as his savior, and also as a perfectly acceptable bed partner, where somehow Jaskier himself didn’t quite measure up. That stung, in its own way, and stung more the longer it was true. 

But Jaskier would like to think he would have hated Yennefer without the whole non-consensual-orgy, almost-killing-him, fucking-the-love-of-his-life thing. He hated her for who she was - shallow, vindictive, cruel, and power-hungry. Yennefer was the opposite of the people Jaskier preferred. She was trying too hard to be better than everyone. Those kinds of stories get told too often already. 

But, since it clearly meant a lot to Geralt, Jaskier didn’t attempt the suicide mission that would be laying a hand on Yennefer when she didn’t want you to. No, instead he hurled as many insults as he could feasibly get away with, and bit his tongue whenever he had to listen to them copulating in the next room, or the next tent, or sometimes up against a fucking tree while he was trying to take a piss. It was unbearable. 

He tried not to think too much about it. 

Instead, he somehow got even more promiscuous. His mother would have blamed the elf blood in her side of the family - something about sex drives kicking into high gear after thirty. But he didn’t care about his blood, or even about the sex. He was looking for a distraction. Anyone who could hold his attention for even a few hours, anyone who didn’t remind him of Geralt. 

It was a hard ask, apparently. He learned quickly that he couldn’t fuck men very often, for there were too many muscled farm workers, blacksmiths, and soldiers whose bodies didn’t look like Geralt at all, but were still similar enough that he could scream. Muscles were so hot, it was a shame he associated all of them with Geralt now. 

So, Jaskier became sluttier than ever. And every few months, Yennefer would show up and Geralt would sleep with her and Jaskier would retaliate by sleeping with more people in more fantastical combinations. Soon enough, he was as likely to get them thrown out of a town as Geralt was, on account of how many people’s wives he slept with. He felt tired. 

The Path was long, and from Spring to Autumn almost every year, Jaskier chose to travel it with Geralt. They may part ways for a month here and there, but soon a decade had passed and Geralt knew to look for Jaskier in Ard Carraigh when he made it down the mountain in Spring. They traveled together more often than not - enough that Eskel had insisted on following Geralt to meet his bard one year. 

“So this is the famous Jaskier!” Eskel greeted him, not unkindly. “You’ve made the Path a sight better these last few years. Next time you’re in Toussaint, sing _Toss A Coin_ for me, will you?” 

Jaskier, of course, readily agreed. It seemed not all Witchers were as uncommunicative and dour as Geralt, though there was a solemnity to Eskel that he couldn’t put a finger on. Maybe it was the way he tugged a hood over his head whenever he was on the street, or the sad smiles he seemed to share with Geralt any time their eyes met. Or maybe it was nothing. Jaskier had only just met the man, after all. 

He very nearly propositioned him, that night. Geralt had long since gone to bed when Jaskier finished his set in the pub, and Eskel was still holding one corner of the bar up and tapping his foot along to the beat. It was nice to see his music appreciated, for once. Of course, Jaskier was always gracefully willing to accept a compliment, so he made his way over to the Witcher when he was finished.

“I’ll ask you the same thing I asked Geralt, when he first heard me play. Your review, in three words or less.”

Eskel thought for a moment, tapping his chin. “Bawdy,” he began, which Jaskier couldn’t argue with. “Untrue,” Jaskier scoffed. “Kind.”

“Kind? In what way, Master Witcher?”

“You twist the truth to suit your purposes. Plenty of people do that, but usually they’re twisting it to punch at those who are already beaten.” He nodded his head towards the now vacated stage. “You made a point to raise up the underdogs. You’re always punching up, at nobles and kings, not down at common folk.”

“That...was surprisingly eloquent. A very accurate analysis. Have you received any artistic training? You’d be a marvel.”

Eskel laughed and shook his head. “No one would take an ugly, scarred witcher into an art school. People in art schools want to look at pretty things.” Here, he raised a glass to Jaskier.

On any other day, Jaskier would have preened at the implied compliment and offered the Witcher a place in his bed. But, he saw the shadow of truth in Eskel’s eyes, and instead he said, “Tell me how you got those scars, and I’ll write you a song so lovely, everyone who sees your face will think only of your bravery and honor.”

And so, Eskel did.

They didn’t end up falling into bed that night - though they stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, Eskel talking and Jaskier scribbling down notes. When he woke in the morning, Eskel was already gone. But he did write the song, with echoes of Renfri’s lullaby in the bridge. It was no lullaby, though. Instead it was a tale of grief and pain, of loss, of the heartbreak of acting too late. Within a year, Eskel’s scars became a symbol of trying to do what was right, and his prospects on the Path had greatly improved. 

Geralt said nothing when Jaskier took to playing Eskel’s song nearly every place they stopped. He sometimes even skipped _Toss A Coin_ so he could fit it into a set. He knew Geralt preferred not to listen to his songs, but it hurt all the same. Geralt didn’t care whether he was on Jaskier’s mind or not. It felt like Jaskier’s life’s work was a passing stimulus to him, there for a while but soon to fade. Again Jaskier had to remind himself that Geralt must want him around, because he had yet to send him away except in jest. (Jaskier hoped it was in jest.) But it didn’t feel true, and though he kept up his cheerful appearances, he began to wonder if he was wasting his life following Geralt around after all. 

So, really, in the end, it wasn’t Yennefer that made Jaskier realize his heart was broken, but Eskel. Life is funny that way.

§

_Look at you, strawberry blond  
Fields rolling on  
I love it when you call my name  
Can you hear the bumblebees swarm  
Watching your arm  
I love it when you look my way _

§

Jaskier did very well at tamping down the sad thoughts. He was a performer, and he took to happiness naturally, so it wasn’t as hard as it maybe should have been to keep a positive face. So Geralt didn’t love him, or even care about him deeply. They were at least companions, compatriots on the Path, and that was something. That was a gift. To be able to travel with Geralt, that was something even Yennefer did not have. And, sure, he hadn’t been invited to winter at Kaer Morhen, though Eskel had looked at him funny when he mentioned it wistfully at their now-annual meetup in the Spring. But it was fine. Geralt didn’t have to spend all his time with him.

So he smiled, he played more songs than ever, he stopped looking for Geralt’s approval. He still listened for it, though. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get any of Geralt’s criticism out of his head. He tried to be better. 

The dragon debacle had many downsides, and not a whole lot of upsides, as far as Jaskier could see. The one upside that seemed to be driving Geralt to participate in the farce of a contract at all was Yennefer, and that was obviously not an upside for Jaskier. His upside was Geralt, but even that was wearing thin - for Geralt had been in a mood since they began climbing this mountain, and Jaskier could not be more ready to get off of it and go back to hunting normal monsters. 

“Damn it Jaskier! Why is it, whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shoveling it?”

_Well. That’s not fair._

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

_Oh._

_Right then._

_I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others._

Jaskier was half-aware of saying these things, but the thing he wanted to say, clawing up the inside of his throat, was _Geralt, Geralt, Geralt. **Geralt**. Look at me. Just once, look at me. See me. _

Instead, he forced himself to say, “I’ll see you around, Geralt.” He promised himself that was the last time he’d say that name, or he’d never stop. Then, he turned and trudged down that godforsaken mountain, and he didn’t look back once. 

He didn’t cry until he reached the bottom.

§

_Isaiah, Isaiah, Isaiah  
Isaiah, Isaiah, Isaiah_

§

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have any social media on which I talk about the Witcher, but you can [follow me on tumblr](https://nvrthlessthsun.tumblr.com/) if you want.


End file.
